Revenge to the Alpha Mate-Chapter 268

Brett’s Perspective

Running.

Damn it all, just pure, adrenaline-fueled, lung-searing *running*. The cold air scraped my throat like ground glass. Every ragged breath tasted of iron and distant rot. My right arm screamed with a dull, throbbing ache—a deep gash from the pipe, maybe a pulled muscle. It hung useless, a disobedient ragdoll limb throwing off my balance as I stumbled over rubble and mud, almost eating dirt half a dozen times.

But all four of us were moving. Luka was on my left, wheezing like a broken bellows, but his eyes were terrifyingly bright. Scarface was ahead to the right, moving through the debris with the agile grace of a true predator. Rat brought up the rear, his skinny frame lurching but never stopping.

Behind us, the prison sirens had faded to a blurred, constant background whine. But another sound was closer, deadlier—the barking of dogs. Not the yaps of pets. This was low, guttural, the excited baying of trackers on a scent, cutting through the cold night, getting clearer.

Hell. Patrol hounds. With noses that could follow a ghost, and training to match. Joy? Excitement? That was gone. Now it was just raw instinct driving my legs.

How the hell did we get here? Rewind a few minutes, and we were still crammed in that stinking pipe, four desperate rats gnawing at steel.

Our escape plan had shifted into overdrive, a flat-out sprint for survival after the old guy disappeared. Luka was coming apart at the seams, a wire stretched too tight.

Any noise from the guards—jangling keys, distant voices, the *click* of shoes in the hall—would make him flinch, pupils dilating, fingers twitching. He was on the verge of a breakdown. Not good.

Then came dinner.

The guard we called "The Hog"—a slab-faced brute—shoved the usual slop through the meal slot in the door, cursing as usual.

Luka was sitting against the wall by the door. Maybe it was The Hog’s shadow crossing the slot, or maybe just his distinctive stench of cheap tobacco and sweat, but Luka snapped.

Without warning, he shot his hand through the slot. Not for the tray. He went for The Hog’s belt buckle! A move born of pure, terrified impulse.

"Where did you take him?! Am I next?!" Luka’s voice was a ragged, broken thing, edged with a madness born of despair.

It went as badly as you’d expect. He missed the belt, knocked the tray flying. That vile paste they called food splattered over him and, crucially, onto The Hog’s polished boots.

The Hog erupted. "You piece of filth!" he roared, yanking out his baton and jamming it viciously through the slot. It connected with Luka’s retreating arm with a sickening *thud*.

Luka cried out, curling around the injured limb, his face contorted in pain. Not broken, but already swelling, skin turning an ugly purple.

The Hog wasn’t done. "Open it up! Drag this rabid mutt out! Solitary! Let him cool off!" he bellowed into his radio.

My stomach turned to ice. Solitary? Easy to go in, hard to come out. It would wreck our plans. Luka might truly lose it in there. Or... be "processed."

The cell door clanged open. The Hog and another equally burly guard swaggered in, batons tapping against their palms, eyes like they were looking at livestock. Luka cowered in the corner, trembling, that brief flash of madness gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror.

*Screw this.* A cold voice cut through my thoughts. *We’re out of road.*

The moment The Hog bent to grab Luka’s collar, I moved. I shouted Luka’s name and launched myself from the Hog’s blind side, throwing my good arm around his thick neck in a chokehold!

I felt the choked gurgle in his throat, the instant tension in his muscles.

Luka, startled by my yell, looked up. Seeing me, the fear in his eyes was replaced by a feral resolve. He didn’t retreat. He launched himself at the other guard like a wounded animal with nothing left to lose, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist in a desperate grapple.

"Scarface! Rat!" I roared, a warning to our allies next door. They’d hear the commotion.

The cramped cell became a primal arena. The Hog bucked and thrashed, driving an elbow hard into my ribs. White-hot pain bloomed, darkening my vision. His other hand swung the baton wildly behind him, aiming for my head. I jerked back, the rubber grazing my temple—a fiery sting, a ring in my ears.

*Can’t let him swing again.*

I shifted my grip, loosening the choke slightly. My right hand shot out, fingers curling into a rigid claw, and I drove them with every ounce of strength into The Hog’s wide, furious, bloodshot right eye.

The sensation was sickeningly soft and wet. The Hog let out a scream that belonged in a nightmare, his body convulsing, the baton clattering to the floor. A dirty move. The lowest of the low. But this wasn’t a fair fight. It was survive or die.

As he clutched his face, howling and writhing, I let go, snatched up the baton, and brought it down hard on the back of his skull. A dull *crack*. He went still.

On the other side of the cell, Luka was losing his grapple, taking punches to the face. I lunged over and slammed the baton into the side of the second guard’s neck. He crumpled without a sound.

The cell was suddenly quiet except for our ragged panting and the soft moans from the two downed guards.

I stomped on The Hog’s radio, the plastic crunching satisfyingly.

I hauled Luka up. His face was swelling, blood trickled from his lip, but his eyes... they burned. Not with fear, but with fire.

I looked at him, my words deliberate. "Luka. Listen. We’re out of choices. We go now, or we die here."

He nodded fiercely, wiping blood from his mouth.

We ripped the key ring from The Hog’s belt. Unlocking our own door was step one. We burst out, fumbling keys to unlock Scarface and Rat’s cell. They were waiting, eyes hard, armed with a sharpened toothbrush handle and a half-brick—they’d been preparing for the worst, too.

"Hell of a move, kid!" Scarface grinned, a bloody gap in his teeth, clapping my shoulder. It was the first real respect I’d seen in his eyes.

"Let ’em all out!" Rat squeaked, voice high with adrenaline and sudden, reckless hope.

We didn’t hesitate. Down the corridor, every cell we could open, we did. A tidal wave of long-suppressed prisoners poured out—confused, ecstatic, then rapidly ignited by survival instinct and pent-up rage. Other guards responding to the chaos collided with the sudden flood of "free" men. Roars, screams, the wet *thwack* of batons on flesh, the crash of breaking things... Chaos exploded through the prison like a virus.

Our group of four didn’t join the riot.

We had one goal. Using the bedlam as cover, we followed the memorized route to the maintenance access, found the moldy stench of the drain entrance, slipped inside, and jammed the grate shut behind us with the baton.

Now we had "tools."

I had the blood-smeared baton. Scarface wielded a length of rusty but solid pipe he’d somehow pried loose. Rat had his sharpened plastic and, miraculously, a pair of pilfered bolt cutters. Luka, despite his bad arm, clutched a shard of broken ceramic with a wicked edge.

We faced the damned welded grate. In the weak beam of a stolen penlight, we could see it had been recently reinforced—fresh welds, thicker, denser wire. But now, this cold barrier didn’t just block a pipe. It blocked the only path to staying alive.

Desire. The will to live. Hotter than any welding torch.

"All together!" Scarface growled. 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

We became animals. We attacked it with everything we had—prying with the baton, hammering with the pipe, snipping with the cutters, even tearing at it with our bare, bleeding hands!

Rusted wire tore into our palms and fingers. Blood quickly slicked our grips, dripping into the foul water. Muscles screamed, burning with each impact, shocks jarring up to our shoulders. No one spoke. Just the ragged panting, the screech and groan of tortured metal, and the deafening drum of our own hearts.

Time lost meaning. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe a lifetime. Finally, with our combined, desperate strength, we tore a jagged, crooked hole in the grate, just big enough to squeeze a body through. The broken ends looked like fangs. We didn’t care.

Scarface went first, then Rat. I pushed Luka ahead of me—his arm was hurt. Squeezing through, a rusty barb tore a fresh, deep gouge in my already injured right arm. Warm blood welled instantly. Screw it. No time.

Freedom.

Cold, wild air flooded my lungs. We emerged behind a mound of overgrown industrial scrap. The prison’s silhouette loomed not far off, sirens and distant clamor still audible, but we were *outside*.

No time for celebration. Not even to tend wounds. We exchanged one look, saw the same wild resolve reflected in each other’s grimy, blood-streaked faces: *Move!*

We ran, away from the prison lights, into deeper darkness and more complex terrain. At first, we tried for stealth. But soon, the baying started.

And now, this: a flat-out, desperate sprint. The human pursuit might still be organizing, but those damn hound noses didn’t need orders.

"Run!" Scarface yelled over the wind of our passage. "We need car!"

We pounded along a dry creek bed choked with garbage, hoping the rough terrain would break our scent trail. The barking didn’t fade. It got sharper, mixed now with human shouts.

Damn, I should’ve wired that lead dog’s muzzle shut! My right arm screamed with every stride, pain flashing behind my eyes, blood soaking my sleeve. Luka’s face was ghostly pale, his breathing ragged and uneven.

We couldn’t outrun them. Not like this. We needed to tear open an escape route, just like we’d torn open that grate.

My eyes darted wildly over the dark shapes around us. Suddenly, Luka’s foot caught on a protruding rebar. He went down hard with a pained cry.

I skidded to a stop, turning back to haul him up. That moment’s delay was all it took. Several flashlight beams sliced through the darkness behind us. The baying was right on top of us.

Hell.